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The boy sat, stripped to the waist, in a unnaturally normal wooden chair. Unnatural in the sense that it was the only normal thing in the ill-lit chamber around him. All over the stone-cobbled room hung various implements of fell purpose, some long and spiked, some short and blunt. In the corner, an oily fire burnt, consuming the wood that dropped in via the chimney, stretching up to Gaia knows where high above. His hair hung in long strands from his head, one even reaching his chin. It was a far cry from the short, cropped hair that he had sported two weeks ago.
Two weeks.
Two weeks since they pushed him into the castle and into this room. Two weeks since they stuck that tube into him. Two weeks since what seemed like all the blood had been drawn out of his body, and a black pulsing liquid that looked like mud and felt like fire had been forced into his veins. How he had screamed and struggled, begged and pleaded, anything, anything to stop the pain. Two weeks since the Man had come, daily, without fail.
Two weeks of hell.
As he tried to lift his head, a searing pain ripped through his body, reminding him of the spike that had been jammed into his backbone a day before. It was still inside, his regenerative powers growing the skin over it and trapping it in its fleshy tomb, doing the jailor more harm than it did the prisoner. His body hung limp and he started to cry.
The powers that he had developed after the black infusion, the “gifts” as the Man had called it, were more of a curse than a blessing. “Maybe by tomorrow, the Blood Arts will manifest,” he heard the Man mutter as he left once. He had no idea what these were. He just hoped, hoped as much as his worn sanity, broken by what seemed like an eternity of pain, would allow. Maybe the Man would not come today. Maybe they would let him out. Maybe, just maybe…
The door groaned as it opened slowly, a spear of harsh orange light stabbing into the room. As the imposing silhouette stepped into the room, the boy involuntarily began shuddering as the fear, gnawing at his stomach, rose to the surface.
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“Hello, 1447. Shall we begin? My king says that your Blood Arts should have manifested by now, but do I see it? Well, do I?”
The boy tried to open his mouth to plead, to reason, maybe even to insult, but only a terrified babble escaped his cracked lips.
The Man slapped him, cracking his head back and causing the pain in his back to flare up uncontrollably again. “Why? Why were you so promising? Why haven’t the Blood Arts manifested yet? You useless scum. I thought you would be the best. I told everyone you would be the best. Now look at you! Pathetic! Weakling! You’re only good at regrowing! Honestly, I don’tknow why I take the time.” Another kick to the side. The boy opened his mouth again, tears streaming from his bloodshot eyes.
“Please…no more…”
“Oh? What’s that? No more? Oh no, that wouldn’t do. You see, pain helps us vampires to train our Blood Arts. I am helping you. Also, more importantly, I find it fun.”
“So, shall we begin?”
The Man whipped a long scalpel of the wall. “First, the regeneration test.” Without a warning, he drew it back and jabbed it deep into the boy’s eye, twisting.
“AAAAGH!” The boy recoiled and thrashed uncontrollably, accentuating the agony in his back. He howled and wailed, his fingers drumming rapidly and reflexively on the handle of his chair. His cries died down into sobs as his abilities kicked in and the scalpel was pushed out of his head, covered in blood and glistening grey matter.
“Please… I don’t know anything. Let me… go. I’ll do anything… so please…”
“How many times must I tell you this. I am not doing this because I want to know your secrets. I couldn’t care less, in fact.”
“Then why…”
“Simple.” The Man grinned, showing off his ashy black teeth. “I like doing it.”
He produced a vial filled with sand from his robes. “This is new. I want to try it.” Then, taking the scalpel, he sliced a thin fold in the boy’s torso and poured the entire vial in.”
“GUUUGH! NO STOP STOP STOP PLEASE STOP PLEASE STOP PLEASESTOPPLEASESTOPPLEASESTOPPLEASESTOP…” The boy writhed in unimaginable agony as the sand inflamed his open wound. To make matters worse, his shoulders began splitting for no apparent reason, and thin red tendrils sprouted out of the gaping wounds.
Nice. Finally, the Blood Arts. So all it took was a little push, no?” The Man offered the boy an amiable smile, before slicing out the entire chunk of flesh covered in sand, prompting more howling. “Blood Arts allow you to control your blood and move it. I suppose we’ll be doing today’s lineup for the next week then. He turned to leave. “Oh yes, I have a surprise for you tomorrow.
The terror was too great, enveloping the boy and crushing into his very soul. The boy devolved into wracking wails of absolute hopelessness as his tormentor left the room, closing the door softly.
“I told you everything… didn’t I?”